


through the needle

by Blepbean



Category: Avatar: Legend of Korra
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Flirting, Fluff, M/M, Pining, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, Wu is a really bad flirt, there's a bit of angst if you squint your eyes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:56:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28592124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blepbean/pseuds/Blepbean
Summary: Wu is excited for the debut of his designs, and he suddenly he's panicking over this model who could potentially ruin his career by a) bringing a scandal and b) being so attractiveWhat doesn’t help is that he’s wearing Wu’s sweater, the colour of dark green, patterned with yellow infinity symbols. A dangle bar earring hangs from his ears, matching the tiny metal chain necklace. His hair is even gelled back. This man, looks like the exact sketch he had, even to the skinny black jeans, converse, black rings and a Gucci belt. He looks rich, but with an edge, a pointy end to it.“He looks like he just sucked on a lemon,” Asami blurts out.“I’m gonna marry that man,” Wu hums. She responds with a goddammit under her breath.
Relationships: Mako/Prince Wu (Avatar)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 79





	through the needle

**Author's Note:**

> got this fashion designer x model idea from @westsidemako on twitter, tysm for this idea <3
> 
> i kinda edited this in like a blur and im sorry if this is weirdly written yall zzz, but this was soo fun to write
> 
> kudos, comments and feedback is appreciated <3

Wu comes from a family of high, pretentious fashion designers. It’s his first time stepping into the ring and he’s absolutely  _ terrified _ . He lives in New York, in a very fancy apartment that has the rent of $10,000 a month that he pays from the will that was left behind him. His room is full of plants, spatially minimalistic, with soft light greens that come from the bookcase and chairs and tables to contrast the white and greys of the apartment.

He doesn’t have time to take a photo of the  _ gorgeous  _ sun breaking through the sky that lights up his whole apartment because his wooden floor is littered with clothes . Jeans. Trench-coats. Turtlenecks. T-shirts. Jackets. Trousers. Even the wide-legged trousers. It all litters his floor.

He keeps swapping and changing, looking over the time as he steps in front of his mirror. Always mumbling something or critiquing it.  _ No, that doesn’t go well with my shape. Not the trousers. It’s too much. Maybe the jeans. No it’s too casual. I need to look formal… but look effortlessly thrown together. _

He keeps remembering what his auntie said before she died. Something-something makes a good impression. Something-something the fashion industry is a trudge. Wu never really liked her, but bless her heart for giving at least  _ one  _ good advice.

Fifteen minutes later he manages to find something. White coroudy pants with a brown leather belt, tucking in a white button up-shirt, a brown sweater vest over the top with a tote bag that has his lunch and everything he needs. He couldn’t match with his outfits that’s being photographed, he couldn’t go green today.

Which is tragic, but whatever.

He almost trips when he puts on his doc martins at the door, shoving a baggy leather trench coat over himself as he heads out the door and locks it behind him with a card. He has everything. Card. Wallet. Keys. Other random things he shoved into his pockets and bag. He even manages to get an Instagram photo of his outfit.

He’s fine.

What isn’t fine is his hair.

He catches a bit of it when he runs down the hallway, noticing how it’s grown on the fancy mirror. He stops momentarily, panicking. Normally he would let it loose, let his sort-of-mullet brown hair turn into soft curls. Right now though, this is an important moment. Tired hours of working deep into the night in the studio, measuring and crafting, perfecting colour theory and when to deviate from it. Long essays. Having to prove to people that he can make it, someone who isn’t just a straight white woman.

It all leads up to this.

He didn’t have his gel with him, the same gel that he used when he graduated. So he manages to fish out a hairband from the corners of his tote bag (thank god) and ties a mullet bun. Perfect. He needs it out of his face today. He can do this.

His phone rings when he gets outside,. He waves for a cab among the bustling streets of the city.

“Wu?” Asami says, “how are you feeling?”

Asami Sato, Wu’s best friend that helped him get recognition in the fashion industry. When her father died, she inherited all of his business. It ranged from cars to fashion brands, she shifted the investment to the fashion brands. They’re kind of similar in a way, having to shoulder the responsibilities of past families. They bonded over this like sad, rich kids, going to clubs and parties and always getting drunk.

  
She’s also the only person that knows he’s gay. So that too.

A cab pulls up, he quickly gets inside as he tells the driver the address, “fine, panicked, I don’t know.”

“Wu, you have to be honest to me.”

He puts on his earphones to talk to her easier, “I am honest.”

“Aren’t you nervous?”

“I am,” he pulls out an eyeliner from his bag and uses the rear-view mirror to draw them on, “what’s not fine is the time, I’m going to barely make it.”

“Did you post your outfit?”

  
:On my instagram.”

  
“Oh, cute.”

“Like in a  _ you tried cute _ or like a  _ this is good cute? _ ” He shoves his eyeliner into the depths of his tote bag and pops a breath mint, he sacrificed all of tooth-brushing time to put on his morning skin-care, “Asami you’re scaring me.”

“I don’t mind it actually, it’s new. Light academia?”

  
“Oh to be back at college while studying in a gothic university and wearing nothing but trench coats and sweaters, learning about philosophy from dead white men and studying old literature from old dead white men .”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line.

“Oh dear lord.”

“Asami?”

There’s a giggle from her, “your model, he just walked into the building.”

“Okay?”

“No… uh, he was involved in a  _ scandal _ ,” oh dear lord, the  _ s word _ , Wu heaves a sigh while he leans against the window, staring out into the towering iron buildings, “that kind of involved… me and Korra.”

“It’s so stupid they didn’t tell me my models,” Wu sighs, “give me his Insta.”

“I want to keep it a secret, a surprise for you.”

“Asami I need to know about this scandal and what he looks like.”

Traffic begins to build, tension coils inside him as the street fills with horns. He’s biting his lower lip. He didn’t want the start of his career to be like this.

“It’s embarrassing…”

“You owe me, remember that time when I went to this guy’s house for a hookup and I threw up on his—”

“—Wu gross, ew. You literally called me in the middle of the night to come and pick you up.”

“You owe me, come on,” he says, softening his voice to try to get a  _ yes  _ from Asami.

It does work, she sighs before speaking, “back at my teenage years me and Korra knew him and his brother but um...”

“Asami?

“There was a love triangle.”

“As in like you and your girlfriend were fighting over him or the brother?” Wu looks out of the window, relief floods over him when the light goes green.

There’s voices that come from the other end of the line, he hears Asami walking away from it, “the model, and we weren’t fighting over him. He… kinda dated me, then kissed Korra. I don’t know it’s really weird.”

“What the fuck.”

“It was, like really  _ really  _ weird. But we’re fine now, I think. All in the past. Stuff like that. He does act awkward when he sees the both of us so…”

“....and that old thing somehow spilled into his modelling career.”

“It’s worse,” she breathes out, “normally this sort of thing isn’t bad, you know, nothing the media team can’t handle but Wu this is the  _ start  _ of his modelling career. He’s done small gigs here and there but this is his first  _ big  _ thing. He’s like… middle class, he can’t afford all that other stuff. I felt bad so I gave a good word to model for  _ your  _ debut.”

“Asami this the start of my career too,” Wu whines, “what if it gets ruined? What if I flop? Asamiiiii”

“You have money, he doesn’t. You’ll be fine—stop whining,” there's a knock on the door, ‘“get your ass here quickly, we’re waiting on you. Love you.”

“Wait—”

She hangs up. Wu bites his lower lip, scrolling through social media. The same thing over and over again, scandals from the fashion industry flooding in. Stolen designs. A slip up on the run-way. An influencer having beef with their fashion designer. Looking through all of this his stomach begins to churn, something heavy is dragging him down.

He’s terrified of the fashion industry. And now this model that is carrying a ticking-time bomb would blow everything he’s worked for.

He’s panicking. This model could ruin everything he’s worked for.

“Are you alright sir?” The driver looks at him from the rearview mirror, there's a sympathetic smile on his face. It’s something that he needs right now in this terrifying life in New York, with all scowls if you stop in the middle of the city. And also all the industries and teachers that turned down his designs. Too much. Too extra. Too feminine.

“Fine, just panicking, I guess.”

This driver had pale green eyes, like a clone of his own, a much more kinder, softer eyes. The corners of his eyes crinkles. Wu wonders how this driver didn’t harden like clay with his softness, or had a resting scowl on his face. 

“New to the city, huh?” The driver asks, his face lighting up.

“Yeah, I moved here a month before I graduated,” Wu sighs, “just terrified and all, have a photoshoot of my debut fashion designs.”

The driver smiles, there’s a tiny curl of black hair on his forehead, “what’s your name?”

“Wu,” he mumbles.

“My name is Bolin,” he hums, “the city’s kinda rough, you’ll get used to it. I grew up on the streets with him. I owe everything to him.”

“You really think so?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Bolin says, “just keep your head’s up. That’s what I keep telling him,” he chuckles before continuing, “all his life he was stuck working, providing for the both of us. Sometimes he picked up some modelling time, some gigs here and there for extra money, but nothing more. So one day, he broke. He really,  _ really  _ wanted to pursue his modelling career, not wanting to be stuck with flipping burgers and mopping the floor.”

“Don’t you want to do that?” Wu asks, “follow in his footsteps. Can’t you just get up and I don’t know… do something that inspires you? Do something other than just be a driver.”

There’s a twitch in his lips, “I want to, but I can’t. We grew up in rags, I still need to be a driver to provide a steady income for the both of us,” he adjusts the rear view mirror, “when people come here, they have money in their backs from daddy’s pockets. I assume your apartment is paid for huh?”

Wu awkwardly nods.

“You have it easy. But the city is rough, like  _ really  _ rough. It’s harsh out here, man. Everything is overpriced, nothing is accessible. You stay poor here and the rich only get richer. Hell, I even tried to get a hotdog down on the street and they asked for $10 bucks?! Ten bucks for a sausage and bread.”

He watches Bolin chuckle, still not harsh and ragged, his eyes sparkling. He must’ve seen the underbelly of the city, yet he still shines like the North Star. He wonders how anyone can still be like this? Wu almost cried when someone swore at him on the street just last night.

His mind finally settles, the raging seas and rough forest settling into a stillness. He’s not panicking silently or madly scrolling through twitter. Wu doesn’t even realise that he’s in his destination, and now he’s standing in front of a tall building with tinted mirrors and stuck-up white men entering into the building.

So, fuck the stilness, everything comes back in like a raging storm.

Asami comes in like a saviour, bursting out of the glass doors and grabbing his wrist. It’s the final nail on the coffin. He’s knee-deep into the fashion industry. Great. Wonderful. Totally not panicking. 

“You need to frame your face,” Asami hums as they call for the elevator, smoothing out her red velvet dress that frames her body, her black hair tied in a ponytail, “pull two strands of hair from your bun, it’ll look better.”

  
Wu does what he’s told. The elevator opens. They ride in silence. He thinks he can hear his own heartbeat echoing inside his own ears.

“You’re slouching, stop slouching,” Asami hums.

Wu stands up straight and the elevator opens. The studio unfolds in front of him, quickly getting overwhelmed. He almost runs into two people carrying camera sets because he was too busy looking at the high ceiling and the dark walls. Asami guides him to the makeup area, lines of desk, mirrors, makeup artist and models idling scrolling through their phone while they wear his clothes.

His fashion designs.

Something bubbles inside him

Pride. It’s Pride that bubbles and blooms in his chest, watching all of the models in different sizes and shapes, all from different cultures. That was something he wanted to strive for, to break down his Auntie’s flaws and create something inclusive, beautiful. His focus was greens, different shades, royalty, allowing someone to feel rich and all dolled up in cheap fabrics.

But a model catches his attention. 

“That’s him, the model close to us.”

“Name?”

“Mako.”

The makeup artist turns him around, messily putting on black eyeshadow around his eyes for a dramatic effect. He wears his movie-star jawline with poise, wielding it like the sharp edge of the knife. Everything he does, his shifting, the way he taps his fingers on the arm chair, turning his lips into a thin line. It’s all deliberate, calculated. It’s interesting. What he can’t control is his eyes, betraying his sharpness and stillness, it swims with a harsh fire. 

What doesn’t help is that he’s wearing Wu’s sweater, the colour of dark green, patterned with yellow infinity symbols. A dangle bar earring hangs from his ears, matching the tiny metal chain necklace. His hair is even gelled back. This man, looks like the exact sketch he had, even to the skinny black jeans, converse, black rings and a Gucci belt. He looks rich, but with an edge, a pointy end to it.

“He looks like he just sucked on a lemon,” Asami blurts out.

“I’m gonna marry that man,” Wu hums. She responds with a  _ goddammit  _ under her breath.

“Don’t marry the model.”

“I am going to make him my husband.”

“Wu—”

“—what?” Wu says with a smile, he watches Mako rolls his sleeves up to his elbows, showing off the muscles on his arms, “he’s attractive, I’m attractive. He’s a model. I’m a fashion designer. It’ll work. Which way does he swing.”

“He swings with a bat at anyone that comes near him,” Asami sighs.

“Repressed queer guy?”

Asami shrugs, “maybe.”   
  


Silence.

“Wu please don’t flirt with him.”

“I am  _ definitely  _ going to flirt with him.”

Asami’s phone buzzes, she heaves a sigh as he nudges Wu to get a move on. Makeup artist starts to get a move on while interns rush left and right to fetch clipboards and coffees. The photography director starts to tell everyone to hurry up, the chaos in front of him bubbles with fear and excitement.

  
Mako rises, the makeup artist moving their tray away from him. He adjusts his necklace, hands grazing over the tendons. Then he smoothes out his gelled-back hair, eyes heavy with focus. Wu stops in the middle of people moving around, trying to make one-last minute changes in the photo-shoots. 

Mako catches him from the reflection in the mirror. His eyes trains on him, the gaze is heavy, dark, but his eyes burst through the heavy darkness of his staring, like a spark in the night. When Wu looks for Asami, she’s already gone. There’s only a couple of people moving camera equipment in this area.

“Hey,” Wu says, he takes a few steps forward, “you look new. Asami told me about you.”

Mako turns around, “yeah, uh… she did me a solid, nothing new,” he opens his mouth to speak, but closes, he points his finger at Wu, “I’m sorry d-do we know each other?”

“Oh, I-I I’m sorry,” Wu puts his hands out for a handshake, “I’m Wu, the guy that made all of the clothes that the models—and you,” he lets a grin slip out, “you look good with it.”

Mako looks at his hand, “what do you mean by that.”

“I-I just… think you look good—with the sweater that I designed—that I made—you look good with it, I mean.”

Wu wishes for someone to strike him down. 

“I’m sorry, I’m not here to make friends,” Mako looks him up and down, the spark in his eyes, that fire, it extinguishes and turns blank, “I have to go.”

And Wu stands there, shame filling up his body. Did he overstep? Maybe he was doing too much, because here’s the thing. He’s only flirted with women when his aunt was alive, masking himself, forcing himself that he can maybe, perhaps marry a woman and birth out three happy kids like a normal, heterosexual couple.

He only flirted when he was drunk, at stupid parties and clubs.

This is the first time that it  _ actually  _ means something.

“Shit,” Wu hums, “fuck, fuck, fuck.”

———

He’s an absolute mess on the inside, but he’s calm on the outside. He watches the model pose for the camera, a simple white background. He’s been in some photo shoots during his school years, taking in how models pose, creating sharp angles, jotting down how to use that for his advantage.

He’s seen it before. The same standing pose. Candid poses. Softening eyes. Flashes of the camera. The monitors showing un-edited pictures. It does his outfits justice, it looks fine. But something feels like it’s missing, gnawing on him.

They call for the next model.

It’s Mako.

He’s about fifteen feet away, leaning against the wall. But it feels like he can feel his skin against his.

And for a split of a second they meet eyes. That warmth is back, fire, making its way through his body and heating up his chest, making his heart-beat rise.

Oh praise gay-jesus he’s smitten over a model. Because there’s something he does differently than the other models, there’s an edge, a sharpness, jagged. He doesn’t bother to soften his face, or bothers with politeness. He’s unapologetic with his poses, creating angles, emphasising the sweater, looking straight into the camera, pretending to fix his rings with a sharp grin on his face. He’s like just-ripened fruit, opening up his skin under the parting knife.

Although there’s some awkwardness and stiffness, it plays into him, turning into those flaws into him. He can’t look away.

“Wu.”

“Jesus,” he almost falls flat on the floor, he stops leaning against the wall and stands up straight, “Korra, you scared me.”

“Just came to stop by,” Korra looks at Mako, “oh shit, that’s him.”

“Yeah.”   
  


“He looks good, lot more grown up”

“I know.”

Korra looks at him, she crosses her arms, “hmm.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” she says, but the giddy smile on her face is saying something else, “nothing.”   
  


The director looks at the monitor, thumb on his lip, focusing on the photos. He nods, then yells out: “That’s a wrap, thank you everyone for everyone’s coming for the photoshoot, and a big clap for Wu’s debut!”

Everyone cheers. But he doesn't find himself interested with the claps or the loud whistles. He finds himself looking at Mako, who’s looking back at him.

Mako looks away a bit too quickly and Korra nudges him on the shoulder.

“Ready for the celebration?” Korra says, “only really came here for that.”

“The celebration isn’t gonna happen until like… a week or two.”

“Fuck,” Korra sighs, “I wanted to get drunk with expensive wine though.”

He pats her on the shoulder, “go talk to Asami, she’s down in her office.”

“You’re already leaving?”

Wu looks at where Mako is right now, taking his duffel bag and leaving, “yeah, I am. Need to process this and all.”

“Well… suit yourself, I’ll see you later then Wu.”

He walks a bit too quickly, almost forgetting his tote bag. By the time he reaches the ground floor he notices how dark it is outside, neon lights blinking and the usual buzz of New York already in full action. The city never sleeps.

What doesn’t help though is that it’s raining, pouring hard. He pulls out his umbrella, mumbling something about how it was supposed to be clear today. The grey skies thunder, and rain pours more and mores, some hitting his face. 

“Shit,” he hears someone say next to him.

They’re about two feet away, on their phone, wearing nothing but a raincoat and sweatpants, duffel bag slung over him.

Duffel bag…

It suddenly clicks together.

Mako looks at him, amber eyes looking golden, like a hearth in a dim room, “Mako? Where’s your umbrella?”

“I—”

“Share my umbrella, get under here,’

“I’m fine.”

Wu sighs, but he looks at Mako’s hands gripping on his phone, shaking, cold. A part of him wants to hold it, link their fingers together and share that warmth that comes from that contact in the rain. Droplets lands on his face, Mako wipes it away.

“Are you walking home?” Wu asks.

“Yes, the subway’s too far away.”

“Why don’t you hire a cab?”

The rain fills the silence, Mako scrolls through his messages, “I don’t have cash.”

“ _ Oh _ .”

“I’m just waiting out the rain,” Mako hums, “it’s fine, really.”

“It’s not fine.”

“You could get sick,” Wu looks at the puddles forming on the ground, getting trampled by businessmen and people looking to seek the thrill of rainy New York, “or worse.”

“I barely get sick.”

Wu suddenly gets an idea, he beams, “you’re a model, even if there’s a small chance that you get sick, you will. And that’s like the  _ worst  _ thing for a model. It’s really tragic,” Wu nudges him on the shoulder, waving for a cab, “come, wait out the rain in my studio.”

“Wu you don’t have to—”

“—no, please,” he turns around, facing Mako, his voice trembles a little, he ends up looking at Mako through the reflection of the waters, “I  _ truly  _ am sorry if I came across annoying, or made you uncomfortable. I want to make it up to you, we can order take out in my studio and wait out the rain.”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

Wu meets his eyes.

This man is a work of art.

“I want to..”

They finally manage to get a cab after a minute, they settle into the backseat with as little as trouble as possible. Wu looks out of the window, staring and staring, watching the world go by. It’s strange to him. How every person he sees has a different life from him. Those blurry faces. People calling for cabs. Each one carries a different life from him.

He looks at Mako.

For the first time he’s smiling at his messages, a spark of joy that’s unguarded. Wu wants to see more of him, he’s already envious of the others that sees him daily. Does his brother know how he laughs, or how he giggles? Does he throw his head back, all white teeth and a childish grin? Wu already wants to know him, it’s strange. This… feeling of wanting to see who he is, dive beneath the skin and see the flame that keeps him alive.

They spend the ride in silence.

They arrive at his studio, which is a one-story building with exposed brick walls and smells like vanilla. It’s being rented out by him, though he’s looking for something closer to his apartment. He gets Mako to carry his umbrella as he slots in his keys, sighing as he comes into the space and flicks the lights and heater on. He dumps his tote-bag near the door.

“It’s nothing special really, just my own space, what do you want for takeout?” Wu takes his phone out, closing the door behind him. There’s the quiet patter on the windows, it’s strangely comforting.

“Holy shit,” Mako gasps, looking at the intricate dancing lights, the polished wooden floor. There’s something warm and soft inside here, through the hanging pots and vines, the radio playing near the window. He touches the tables that’s littered with fabric scraps, then looks over to the pinterest photos. It spans all across the walls, showing different aesthetics and fabrics.

“Mako?”

“I could live in this,” Mako breathes out, looking over to the designs hung up in a photo frame, the open folders of drafted gowns and sweaters, walking towards the sealed up clothes that’s hanging on the rack.

“Family left a will, so I did what I could with it,” Wu says, smiling as he walks over to Mako, “rented out a studio, though I’m moving soon.”

“Where’s your earliest work?”

Wu feels his ears heat up, “back at the apartment, it’s really bad though.”   
  


“I’m sure it’s not bad,” Mako sighs, touching the sewing machine on the bench, “probably better than my on the fly stitching.”

Wu puts down his phone on the bench. He’s not ordering tonight. 

“I could teach you.”

He gets a chuckle from Mako, “I’ll probably end up stabbing my thumb.”

Wu opens the drawers under the bench, pulling out a needle, a spool of black thread and a piece of fabric and sits on the bench, “not that hard really, first you have to thread the thing through the eye of the needle and tie it.”

“I know how to do that.”

Mako stands in front of Wu, he starts to become aware of this, the gaze on his fingers that works through the needle, “this is a simple stitch, back stitch,” Wu puts the needle between his teeth, taking scissors from the drawer as he cuts the thread short. He starts to shake. It’s strange. He’s used to sewing. He’s been around it his whole life.

So why now?

He hears Mako’s breathing, heavy and thick, warm. He bites his lip as he continues, “stab the fabric and pull all the way, then come up a stitch length away,” he pauses talking, careful not to stab himself. He wonders how Mako would look like when he stitches, with his calloused hands, the lines on his fingers. Would the needle be too big for him? Or would it fit around his hands, his fingers, trying not to stab himself, cussing when he does.

“Now what?”

“Huh?” Wu looks up, meets his amber eyes.

“What’s next?”

“S-sorry,” Wu shakes his head, “you stab the end of the previous stitch, pull through then keep going,” he lets himself work slowly, watching the needle rise and fall through the fabric, “it’s easy,” Wu hands it to him.

“I’m going to end up making myself bleed,” Mako says, a soft smile on his face.

“Trust me, when I first started stitching I had like five bandages on my hands. It’s worthed though,” Wu brings his hands out to guide him, stopping Mako’s shakiness. There’s a flash of warmth. His eyes grazing the muscles, the veins. His hands aren’t soft, it’s rough, while Wu’s is soft. 

“I’ve never done this before,” Mako breathes out. 

“Stitching?” Wu says, his cheeks heating up, he guides Mako’s fingers to finish the line of thread, “you’re doing it right now.”   
  


“No, it’s something else,” Mako’s fingers graze over the soft parts of Wu’s palm, “this. I… I was an asshole to you when we met, I’m sorry.”

“I was the one that was the asshole to you,” Wu looks up, looking at his eyes, then down to the cupid’s bow of his lips. His heart begins to speed up. It’s happening. This. All of this.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he whispers between the space between them, closing the distance between them just a little bit.

“This is my first time,” Wu responds.

He closes his eyes and kisses him.

The hunger, like tasting a foreign fruit, is there. But fear get’s a hold of him and there’s just the soft brush of lips, almost as if they’re clumsy beings just getting used to each other. He wants just a little bit more, so Wu takes the needle and fabric and puts it on the bench and kisses him more. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, and Mako laughs into it while he leans more into Wu but—

—he likes it.

He hates the smell of cigarettes, but on Mako, he carries with no care. It’s faint. Barely there. He notices it while Mako slots himself between him to get a better angle of him, wanting to kiss more of him, wanting more of him. Wu is suddenly jealous, envious of the things he wears, the things that touch his skin. The shirt that hangs on Mako’s closet. His singlets. But also the things that his lips touch, the droplets, the tiny pieces of bread that he rips apart in breakfast, even the air that he breathes. Wu’s envious of it all, he wants to be all of that and more. Let him bend the universe, he doesn’t care. Breathe into him and fill his lungs until is bursts with heat and blooming flowers.

When Mako pulls away, he notices the blush on his fawn skin.

“I’m sorry,” Wu shakes his head, “did I over-step, am I doing something?”

“No it’s….” Mako looks over Wu’s shoulder and out of the window, “the rain stopped.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Mako steps away from Wu, scratching the back of his neck, “but uh… let me get your number fist.”

“Huh?’

“Well you kissed me, and I’m thinking that I like you. You like me? That’s mutual right? I’m sorry this is my first time,” he pauses, biting his lower lip, “liking a guy.”

“This is your first time?” Wu says, “that was my first kiss.”

“Well,” there’a teasing smile on his face, “it won’t be your last.”

They dissolve into laughter as Mako kisses him all-silly. After a while they finally detach themselves, and Mako adds him on his contacts. He keeps the number close, it’s his first love, high on this love and everything that’s bright. When he gets home, Wu texts Mako.

_ Me _

_ Hey _

_ This is Wu _

_ Mako _

_ Oh yeah _

_ Hi <3 _

  
  



End file.
